The pigeons moan when the blind girl calls, for she is hungry and will be wanting pigeon pie. Eugene settles into his big chair to polish his spike. I watch as he brushes the chamois over the walnut pole until his fingers are stained darker than his skin.
We try to please her with small things, whatever we can manage. I am embroidering a pillow for her with lilies that she can touch on the surface of the rough cloth, perhaps even feel their color.
The blind girl is the last of her kind but she is not a witch, not those poor creatures that must be cleansed of sin by fire. She speaks to us in visions, from the eldest to the very young. And when our services are needed to purify our flock, we comply. We are hers to bid, as a mother would bid her children. None of us dares question her except for fools such as Rafe, misshapen and foul-mouthed, often drunk. So it was natural that his blaspheming head wound up on the sharp end of Eugene’s pole, supper for the crows.
There is always a great feasting and celebration whenever a head finds its way to to that spike, when the blind girl calls.
~ Marge Simon
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